Dreams of future conquest flash through Kahazul's sleeping mind. The taint holds
sway over his subconscious, unfolding before his lidded eyes visions of what is
to come.

---

The 18th of Vestian, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. Sunset. The Basin
of Life is utterly still as Father Sun descends over the western mountain
range. For the past three weeks the gates of Magnagora have been barred tight -
not one creature has been seen stirring upon its streets, nor coming and going
from any door. A solitary vulture swoops low, circling the Tower of Midnight
Domination. It lets out a piercing cry and begins to arc towards the east,
towards the blasted lands that are its home.

The residents of the Basin of Life begin to drift off to sleep, safe in the
arms of those they love and thankful for this strange new peace...

The quiet is broken. The gates are at long last flung wide, the echo of
crashing steel discernable from across the Inner Sea. Flocks of seagulls take
to the air in surprise. Those Celestians still up and about pause and cast
their eyes east, towards the gathering darkness and the silent spires of their
foe. Word moves through the barracks of the paladins and sentries are posted
upon the walls.

Twilight. Several hours have passed, and the squires posted along the walls
lean drowsily against the battlements. The boredom is broken by another sound
from the east. It is faint but continuous, audible only by virtue of the
westward winds. It begins as a low rumble, felt more than heard, and grows
every minute. The city is put on alert - whispers of 'earthquake' filter
through crowds of gathered peasants as winged Celestines take to the sky and
Aquamancer seers scale the tallest towers, all eyes fixed on the eastern
horizon.

Midnight over Magnagora. Just as it has for every night within memory, the bell
within the old belltower strikes twelve o'clock. Never before has it carried
such a strong and malevolent note, or held it for so long. As its vibrations
cease the source of the earlier rumbling becomes apparent. Issuing forth from
the northern gate, a blackness darker than night spreads out over the
Ackleberry Highway. An infinitude of swarming shapes pour from every structure
within the city, flooding the ancient streets and surging ever northward out of
the gates. As they emerge from beneath the city's polluted haze the starlight
reveals their true nature.

A million blades bristle in the ethereal light, a million polished helmets and
twisted masks hide a million hungry faces. Legions of hulking Taurian and
Orclach assemble upon the Shallach bridges, forming into well-disciplined
ranks. The massive shapes of Tae'dae and Igasho mill through them, wielding
sharpened tree trunks and gargantuan, unwieldy blades. At the head of the first
column, resplendent in obsidian mail, the Emperor himself sits astride an
armoured night mare. He raises his blade and brings it down again in one swift
gesture, and the march begins.

---

The 19th of Vestian, 173 years after the coming of Estarra. Dawn breaks. The
Celestians prepare for war within their walls. Paladins wander the walls,
blades at the ready, while Celestines and their angelic companions flit to and
fro between Delport, Serenwilde and the Star Palace, exchanging messages and
reports. All eyes are on Serenwilde, abandoned for now - the Princess will not
see her forces spent among the indefensible trees of Serenwilde. The Imperial
force of Ur'guard has only grown as it makes its way towards the northwest,
crossing over the Ackleberry Junction as the sun moves towards noon. Teams of
Geomancers move along the fringes of the army, tainting the land beneath their
feet as they go. The last dregs of the army had exited the gates as the sun
peeked over the eastern horizon, and the gates had slammed closed behind them.
The force leaves ruin in its wake, the ground mashed to mud by marching feet
and the slithering bodies of tainted wyrms leaving wide ruts.

Noon. The assembled forces of Serenwilde wait at the edge of the woods, a
phalanx of Serenguard forming a buffer between the expanse of the open highway
and the druids in the rear. Every tree has been animated by their magic, every
totem flares with power. Three full moon circles have formed among them, a ring
of Moondancers to either side of the phalanx, and another in the rear providing
support. The Regent and his advisors stand back from the assembled fighters,
safe in the trees atop a wooden observation post. The Great Chieftain and
Hierophant shout orders down while the High Priestess communicates with her
coven below. Fear is apparent upon the Regent's face - they could not have
anticipated this strong a foe, and support from Celest is not forthcoming.

High above, the Silver Goddess looks down. Uneasiness is etched in Her ageless
features, and in the fringes of Her vast mind She senses something great and
terrible gathering strength. Something red.

The sun has begun its slow descent towards dusk, but for the Serenwilders the
day is only just beginning. It will be their last, and so it is only fitting
that it should prove exceptionally long. The first line of Ur'guard has spread
itself out, the vanguard of the legion ten-men thick and twenty times as wide.
To the Serens posted opposite that daunting wall of steel it is quickly
becoming apparent that the time has come for them to make their final stand.
Moments before the initial charge Magnagora is joined by its last as a wing of
Nihilists arrives from the south, blotting out the afternoon sky as they soar
alongside their demon thralls, a nimbus of corruption wreathing their features.
They are fresh from the plane of Nil, having received the blessings of all the
Demon Lords. The Fist of Luciphage flies at their head, the Nil Grim Horror a
bestial silhouette at his side and the mark of the Supreme Master glowing red
upon his brow.

As the Imperial army sets itself once more into motion towards the Serenwilde,
great red banners are raised at intervals, red silk sewn with the visage of the
red masque. The enchanted banners dance with images of flame and destruction,
and as they are lifted skyward chanting begins to erupt sporadically among the
tainted. A horn sounds, first one, then another, and soon the air is filled
with enthusiastic screams and trumpeting instruments. Above them all there
rises one long, terrible cry from the Nihilists above, their voices joined as
one and then amplified a thousand times. As their war cry echoes across the
Basin of Life the very sun itself seems to shift, a subtle red light invading
its golden rays and coating all of creation in a bloody glaze.

"Fie, things! Fie! Thus ends the age of the light and begins the crimson epoch!
Glory to the Red Masque!"

The armies meet. The warriors clash with steel, the mages exchange volleys of
magical energy, and above it all the Wiccans and the Nihilists dart to and fro,
trading blows, demons and fae tearing each other to ribbons and raining blood
upon the chaos below.

---

The battle rages on.

---

The Imperial forces charge again and again, dashing themselves against the
Seren ranks with wild abandon. The Serenguard hold, tremble, and finally break
under the steel tide.

---

A single silver tear falls and splashes upon the Regent's brow seconds before
his platform is felled and he is set upon on all sides. As his mind goes black
he is aware only of its wetness upon his brow.

---

The 24th of Vestian, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Serenwilde has
been put to the torch. That which resists the flames is laid barren by earth
and taint. That which resists the taint is set upon with axe, and finally by
fang and claw as the Magnagorans tear wildly through the woods, fanatical in
their desire to destroy. The Moonhart Mother is ringed in flame, and though it
has thus far warded off the many attempts at destroying it, it has begun to
weaken. Great gouges mar its sides, silver sap oozing out like blood, as its
once vibrant leaves begin to wither and float down to feed the flames below.

Great masses of Serenwilders have been rounded up and forced to aide in the
destruction of their home. Those that resist are thrown into the pyres; those
that comply are thrown into the pyres - Mother Moon stares down in horror as
her faithful are summarily executed. In other areas, where the forest has
already been cleared, regiments of necromancers are at work resurrecting those
that fell in the battle and the pursuit through the woods that followed, as the
last of the forest's defenders broke and turned west, scrambling desperately
towards Celest. Not one made it. Now those few victories they had scored were
being undone as their foes rose once more as hideous undead. Those missing
limbs harvest them from fallen Serenwilders, some of whom are reanimated
themselves, shackled, and marched east over the mountains towards Angkrag.

The scene on the Ethereal Plane is no better. The Ethereal Serenwilde has been
treated to the same hospitality as its prime counterpart, though it has proven
more resilient. The bonds of those Fae loyal to the Moon Spirit are broken, and
they are held prisoner alongside their Faethorn brethren. Ringed by Ur'guard
they are forced across the Planes to Nil. As they drift sullenly through the
putrid mists they are assailed by the cackles and leers of imps. One by one
they are marched into Gorgulu's gaping maw, carried on their own feet into the
abyss. The laughter of the Supreme Master reverberates across the plane as his
legions swell with transformed Fae, and he appears beside Gorgulu himself to
witness the spectacle as Queen Maeve is hurled into the Mouth of a Thousand
Hungers.

Their task complete, the Magnagorans return to the prime Serenwilde, leaving
the Ethereal Plane silent and bare. The people of Glomdoring look on from the
Ethereal Glomdoring, their eyes masked in mingled hatred and fear. Their Fae,
few though they may be, are the last.

---

It is several days before the Moonhart Mother falls. As it finally gives in and
crashes into the inferno that has already engulfed its smaller counterparts, it
fires a fountain of silver-white flame into the sky above. The lesser fires
around it dim for a moment as it wishes the Basin of Life farewell, etching the
image of a great silver tree upon the sky.

---

The 3rd of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Serenwilde is
little more than a blackened smear against the northern mountain ranges, its
former beauty wiped from existence by earth and taint. The armies of Magnagora
break camp and form up along the Alabaster Highway, gleaming ranks of Ur'guard
punctuated by units of freshly risen undead, not quite as noble in bearing but
just as fierce. The Geomancers, exhausted from a long night spent completing
the forest's corruption, slide along atop their wyrms in a lethargic daze.

Mile after mile of soot-blackened stumps, punctuated by barren stretches of
polluted refuse. The Northern Wastes are borne from the Serenwilde - it will be
centuries before they are repopulated.

Before setting out a number of crude wagons are ordered to be constructed from
the wood gathered during the sacking of the forest. As the vanguard advances
south towards Celest, a train of wagons begins to trundle back in the opposite
direction, pulled by rockeaters. Once there they are loaded down with
provisions, and word is sent through the remaining civilian populace - the
siege of Celest is at hand.

---

The 6th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Celestians
stand proud atop their walls, fear forgotten for the moment. Ranks of gleaming
Paladins gaze out over the western parapets as Aquamancer scouts navigate the
Estengare River, slipping silently through the reeds. The Imperial army has set
down roots in the Oleanvir Valley west of Celest. Savage knights slaughter roans
and rabbits as Geomancers blast Rocs from the sky to supplement their rations,
though many are still living off of preserved elf flesh.

A handful of Paladins, bows in hand, take shots at the amassing legions, only
to find their arrows sent wide of their marks by magical wards. By day the
armies retreat into the tents and shelters that crowd the valley, but as soon
as the sun sets they emerge in a flurry of activity. Great bonfires illuminate
the night, fed by uprooted brush, around which great siege engines are
constructed. Morale upon the walls is still strong, however, for the Celestines
have retreated to Celestia to beg the favor of the Supernals. They are confident
their prayers will be answered.

---

The 9th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The new moon. As
Father Sun settles down for the night a storm begins to roll in from the
Amberle Ocean. It carries the scent of faraway lands, of desolate plains long
abandoned by mortal kind. It holds the subtle yet pungent reek of old death,
and as it reaches the Magnagoran camps they are invigorated by its aroma. At
midnight the armies of the Empire begin to form up, making their final
preparations to storm the walls of Celest. The air is thick with apprehension
and subdued excitement.

---

A solitary figure swathed in a white cloak emerges from the Pool of Stars,
followed moments later by an escort of archangels. It makes its way to the
western battlements, clutching a long object wrapped in cloth to its chest.

---

The Oleanvir Valley comes to life as thousands of torches are lit, illuminating
the frenzied faces of the Magnagoran armies. A signal is given and the Ur'guard
surge forward as one, led by a vanguard of ladder-bearing grunts. They maneuver
the gigantic lattices of wood and rope against the wall under a hail of arrows
and elemental energy, great spheres of Celestial light rending gaps in the
seething hordes below. The onslaught is not slowed in the least, troopers
clambering over their fallen comrades to reach the wall. A wing of Nihilists is
dispatched into the sky, drawing fire as they wheel about the parapets, their
forms visible only as flickering black shapes outlined against the moonless
night.

Ur'guard troopers begin to climb the ladders as elite death knights scale the
wall manually, driving iron spikes into its lustrous surface and pulling
themselves up by their arms. A few of them are accidentally struck by falling
debris as the fortifications are pummeled by Geomancer-guided siege engines,
boulders and hollow stones filled with crotamine vapors striking the towers
repeatedly. The defenders are slowly beaten back as the first waves of Ur'dead
pour over the top of the wall. In the streets, huddled masses of peasants watch
in horror as scores of Paladins are struck down and flung over the wall to crash
through roofs and splatter their innards across the cobblestones.

---

As morning comes the Celestians find themselves nearly beaten atop the wall,
only a few pockets of resistance remaining to fend off the Ur'dead. Meanwhile
scores of screeching Nihilists engage the Celestines high above the Pool of
Stars, explosions like fireworks lighting the darkness as the guardians and
their thralls exchange blows.

The sun peeks over Avechna's Teeth, and a new figure takes to the wall. Swathed
in white robes, the Ecclesiarch of the Celestines discards the cloth obscuring
the object in his hands and draws forth a huge, shimmering blade. He holds
Methrenton's sword aloft, its scintillating tip catching the first rays of the
dawn and illuminating the wall in an aurora of burning light. The Ur'guard fall
back from its glow, shielding their eyes even as it melts them within their
sockets, the reek of boiling flesh filling the air as undead topple backwards
over the wall, clawing at their dissolving flesh. Those knights powerful enough
to resist are hurled backwards by a sudden pulse of angry red light that flashes
from the ruby set in the sword's pommel, flying out into the open air to crash
down onto their comrades below. Once the last Magnagoran has been flung from
the fortifications the Ecclesiarch plunges the blade into the solid stone of
the wall, suffusing every brick with a golden aura. A few more boulders come
crashing down, only to bounce harmlessly off the stone's blessed surface.

The churning masses hurl themselves against the wall again and again, but each
time they are forced back by its burning aura, and any ladder pushed against it
bursts into flame. The battle slows until the Magnagoran forces can to naught
but mill around as the wall's base, eyes shrouded by rags, screaming curses at
the Ecclesiarch.

---

Night has cast her shroud over the Basin of Life. In the Emperor's tent the
Supreme Commander of the Ur'guard confers with the Archmage of the Geomancers
in hushed tones. The Emperor pores over his maps, moving battalions of
enchanted figurines to and fro, lost in thought. A skeletal bat is sent east
bearing an urgent message for the returning caravans.

---

The 10th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. A contingent of
Geomancers and conscripted Igasho have been seen advancing towards the wall
under cover of night. As the sun rises a great fog is called in by the
Geomancers, obscuring them from the prying eyes of the guardians atop the wall.
The rest of the army remains silent in the encampment. Tension is high.

---

The 11th of Avechary, 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. The Paladins
posted atop the Tonna Olearium tower hear a rumbling from deep beneath the
wall. They alert their superiors, but there is no feasible way to launch an
investigation. Extra guards are called in from other areas to stand watch. The
Merciful Judge of the Celestines consults the Supernals and is assured that
their blessing will repel any Magnagoran who attempts to set foot within the
city.

---

Noon. The earth beneath the Tonna Olearium tower shifts and groans, and in the
blink of an eye the earth beneath the tower falls away and the entire tower is
swallowed up. The cries of trapped citizens can be heard for hours, but the
rescuers cannot clear the mud in time. By sunset the last guardsman has
perished, drowning in the rising silt. His choked screams send chills through
the hearts of those gathered.

---

Over the coming weeks the bulk of the Imperial army pulls out and heads back to
Magnagora. The geomancers remain beneath Celest, determined to see their plan
succeed. They work tirelessly, manipulating the layers of earth beneath Celest,
drawing out the supportive bedrock beneath the city. In places they replace it
with thousands of tons of silt and mud drawn in from the Inner Sea, and in
others they simply leave vast underground caverns. They target the foundations
of the city's structure, bringing tower after tower toppling into the abyss.
The walls fall first, and then they turn their eyes inward, sinking the city a
block at a time, laughing all the while as the earth accepts their offerings,
the stone and marble of the once-great nation returning home at last. The city
is evacuated, its surviving citizens scattering across the Basin of Life.

---

Dvarsh. 173 years after the Coming of Estarra. Celest lays in ruins. The Pool
of Stars remains intact, alone in the middle of a swampy mire. Magnagoran
planar scientists manage to reconfigure the Pool's structure, allowing war
parties to begin laying waste to the outer planes. When the magics of water
prove too powerful to warp they move on to Celestia, slaughtering scores of
angels and, finally, the Supernals themselves. The five meet the invaders head
on, resplendent in golden armours and weapons from Methrenton's forge. Even
Raziela enters the fray, clutching Elohora's hand desperately in her own and
flinging orbs of crackling pink flame with the other, her eyes squeezed tightly
shut and tears rolling down her cheeks. The Supernals hold the taint at bay for
days, butchering, vaporizing, and otherwise destroying wave upon wave of
invaders. Eventually, however, they tire. As their magic weakens and the
Geomancers' tainted grip upon the plane strengthens they are forced back. One
by one they fall, overwhelmed by exhaustion and countless wounds, until only
Elohora remains. She collapses against her throne, eyes glazed over, a shining
spear in one hand and still clutching Raziela's disembodied hand in the other.
She raises her arms to shield herself, desperate. The swarms of raiders part,
and the Emperor himself steps forward. A knight beside him offers the Emperor
his blade, and it is accepted.

He steps forward and yanks off his helmet, tossing it aside and taking a moment
to look the Supernal in the eyes. Above Lady Terentia gazes down in abject
horror, held at bay by a cackling Lord Fain. The Emperor levels the tip of the
sword at Elohora's heart and drives it forward, penetrating her chest and
ending her life instantly. Afterwards their bodies are carried off to be
desecrated upon Nil.

---

180 years after the Coming of Estarra. Winter. The Basin of Life has become a
festering blot on the landscape, the Inner Sea shimmering black as pitch under
the sun's rays. Celest has become 'the bog', and is home to all manner of
tainted monstrosities, drawing their power from the reeking ring of waste and
putrescence that was the Pool of Stars. To the north life has yet to stir, save
for a handful of wooden outposts and frontier fortresses, occupied mostly by
Magnagoran scientists. Only the Glomdoring remains to stand against the taint.
Emissaries are sent from Magnagora, demanding the Heart of Darkness to give in,
to throw off the wyrd and embrace the taint once more. Their ultimatum goes
unanswered.

---

187 years after the Coming of Estarra. Autumn. Above the forest of Glomdoring
several planar rifts are rent through the air with no warning, expelling clouds
of foul black smog into the sky above the woods. The inhabitants of Glomdoring
look on in surprise and confusion for several moments, until the fruits of
Magnagora's years of foul experimentation are finally revealed. Tainted fae,
imps, and half-transformed abhorrations pour from the rifts in a seemingly
endless tide, falling upon the forest, their buzzing wings and tormented cries
filling the air. The smog follows their descent, a sickly deluge of tainted
waste inundating the woods within moments. The power harnessed by the Empire
with its conquests is simply too great a thing to stand against.

---

198 years after the Coming of Estarra. Little has changed - to the south the
wyrd's presence is long gone. Several patches of forest have reverted to the
taint, others have simply wilted and perished. The presence of life in the
ruins of Celest and Serenwilde is strengthened as the Empire grows in
population. No longer restricted by war or strife the Viscanti breed wildly,
sending forth expeditions of newly spawned creatures to colonize and further
corrupt the Basin. The villages are quickly enslaved.

---

214 years after the Coming of Estarra. The tainting is complete. In the ruins
of Celest a new city has begun to be raised, and new growth is at last
discovered in the Northern Wastes, though it is such a mockery of life that the
Glomdoring seems wholesome in comparison. New villages sprout up among the
remnants of the Verasavir and Oleanvir Valleys, and in the inhabitable
stretches within the mountain ranges, as the Empire drives the natives from
their homes.

---

234 years after the Coming of Estarra. The lost cities of Gaudiguch and
Hallifax are at last returned through a massive collaboration of tainted minds
hailing from Old Magnagora in the east and the newly raised fortress city of
Orlache to the west. The people of the lost cities emerge to greet their
rescuers with open arms, only to find themselves beset by tainted beasts. They
are overwhelmed and exterminated, their cities transformed into tainted
colonies and their nexuses plundered dry. The forces of the Empire have gained
too much momentum to be stopped at this point. Lord Fain, brimming with the
power offered by His legions of loyal beings, holds dominion over the Havens.

---

267 years after the Coming of Estarra. Time moves forward. The Basin of Life is
a churning mass of activity - great spires are raised across the land as room
becomes scarce, the tainted choosing to build vertically. As the Basin
overflows, great armadas of ships are sent off across the Marne and Amberle
oceans. Equipped with most powerful Imperial technology and manned by its
greatest minds, they set out to retake the world from the wilderness that has
gripped it since the Vernal Wars. They find inhospitable wastelands and
desolate countryside and transform them into lush gardens of putrescent
foliage, raising towns and spreading the seeds of corruption everywhere they
go. Thus they exchange the land's death for undeath, corrupting it ever
further, granting it the illusion of life that the taint might take root and
spread.

---

332 years after the Coming of Estarra. Lusternia's surface is slowly changing
as the taint writhes its way deep into the bowels of the planet, infecting all
it contacts as it grows in strength. The creatures that walk it's surface are
more akin to gods than mortals - all are Viscanti, and all overflow with the
power of the taint. Despite these strides forward, however, the core of the
Empire begins to break down. As it grows in size and power it is unable to
support itself, splintering into numerous factions. Actual war is witnessed for
the first time in over a century as the tainted fight among themselves for
power.

---

456 years after the Coming of Estarra. The planet's surface is a seething mass
of taint. The terrible black towers that rise from its pocked surface and the
towering beasts that populate it would be unrecognizable to a man of an earlier
era. Their ways grow more and more alien as time progresses. It is at this point
that the Primal Gods begin to be rediscovered; many are hauled from their
prisons and butchered, others enslaved or sapped of their dark power.

---

792 years after the Coming of Estarra. Nations begin to break down as madness
grips Lusternia, the beings that roam its surface mutated beyond comprehension,
the very core of the planet suffused by Kethuru's defiling touch. Great cults
spring up in place of the dying nations, and in the dead of night rituals
unimaginable in the magnitude of their violence and savagery are performed in
homage to the Soulless Gods. Chaos reigns as the trappings of society fall
away.

---

1023 years after the Coming of Estarra. The last pockets of tainted
'civilization' fall to the madness that rages across Lusternia. No mind is
spared. The undead behemoths that stalk Lusternia and call themselves gods
revert to a lifestyle of utter lunacy. Such basic functions as writing and even
spoken language become lost. The air is filled at all hours by the drone and
whine of twisted instruments, and the beasts of Lusternia work their endless
savagery to their tune, caught in an eternal orgy of violence and blasphemy
from which there is no escape.